Look After You
by LostInLost18
Summary: Suliet, one-shot. Sawyer is getting sick of Vincent following him every time he feels miserable. But then he remembers a story an old friend told him and thinks maybe there's a chance Juliet hasn't left him forever after all.


Look After You

Summary: Sawyer is getting sick of Vincent following him everywhere in the days following Juliet's death. But he remembers a story from long ago. And maybe, just maybe, there's a chance Juliet hasn't left him at all. SULIET ONE-SHOT.

* * *

He drains the last of his drink and stares ahead, wishing these goddamn tears would just evaporate already. He's sick of crying now. It's like he can't remember what happiness even felt like, what it looked like, and that thought sickens him.

He leans over the sink and vomits, wishing he could just _let go_. Wouldn't the world have been simpler if every emotion you felt could've had an off button, which you could flick and simply…not feel? Oblivion is a medicine he can't afford, however, because every time he reaches for it., he has to remind himself loneliness is a bitter pill he has to swallow.

Is it easy? No.

Is it necessary? Yes.

But since when has anything necessary been something enjoyable to do?

Suddenly he notices the damn dog hovering by the door. Vincent hasn't changed much since the early days. Maybe that's why he feels such an irrational surge of hatred for the poor mutt: he's never been miserable, he's never had something so catastrophically devastating that his entire world has changed.

"Get out," he barks gruffly, but the dog doesn't move.

Instead, he trots in, bold as anything, and lays down beside him, watching him intently with an expression as familiar as anything.

He doesn't say anything; but he reaches for the bottle of alcohol and drains it all, sliding down onto the kitchen floor, wishing he could just forget everything.

/./././

The sun is high in the sky, and he paces up and down, just waiting for some kind of sign as to what to do next. He's never liked uncertainty; nor, he recalls with a grim smile, has Jack.

He slumps against a tree and takes apart the gun, studying the pieces carefully before reassembling it. He tilts it, examining every inch of it, contemplating taking the damn thing and blowing his brains out. It would sure beat trying to scrape through another day busting his ass for a man he isn't even sure he could trust. But maybe he's got to pay his dues before anything good happens to him.

Thing is, he's sure he's already paid his dues. And it earned him this fantastic, beautiful, smart woman who, somehow, had loved him with all her heart. So much so, in fact, that she'd thrown away her own happy ending in favour of getting them both back to whatever mess they'd come from.

That gun is starting to look real friendly now.

And then the damn dog reappears. It's starting to become a nuisance now. Vincent stares at him, then at the gun, and he lets out a whine. A _whine_. And he feels almost guilty for contemplating suicide, as though the dog has any say in the matter.

"Get lost. Shoo!"

He rises and makes a shooing gesture, which the dog ignores. He stands there, utterly broken, hands outstretched, as though asking for an impossible answer. He blinks back tears of utter exhaustion, his mind shutting itself down so he doesn't have to deal with the fact that Vincent, despite the fact he's a dog, is wearing the same disapproving look she always used to give him whenever he contemplated doing something fundamentally stupid.

He lowers the gun warily, his eyes on the dog.

"It's down, okay?" he snaps. "What more do you want?"

The dog lets out a low whine and inches closer and, unless he's completely insane, he thinks he can see tears behind the dog's eyes.

And it makes him start to cry too.

/./././

He almost breaks down again.

He's such an idiot!

Because of him, two of his friends are dead. Their bodies are irretrievable, just like Charlie's, and the reminder of all he's lost makes him so miserable, so lost, he can't help but cry. He disguises it well, however, because he doesn't want to seem weak. Not now.

He lingers a while, staring out at the ocean whilst the others are packing up. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots Vincent, who is in a sitting position, his eyes solemn. And he's wearing that _it's not your fault _expression he's always loathed.

Bullshit.

It's all his fault, and the dog knows it. Hell, everyone here knows it; they just don't have the guts to say it aloud. He sees their silent accusations in their eyes and he knows he's a horrible piece of scum who robbed a little girl of her parents.

So he gives Vincent a parting sorrowful look, the kind he'd give her if she were here, the kind which basically says, _look, I've done wrong, and I'll probably never make it right, but I need you to know I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

The only way he can make it right is by making sure he carries on fighting, even though he's pretty sure fighting whilst carrying all this grief is just about the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

/./././

He takes a pause as the war rages on. Sitting on the sand, his eyes carrying the far away look he used to tease her about, he waits for his companion to come.

"_My sister, Jeanie, died when I was a boy; fell off the monkey bars and broke her neck…"_

His palms still sweat from the memory of having her hand ripped away from; his eyes still refuse to shut out the image of the darkness swallowing her whole.

"_And my mother - well, my foster mother - she blamed herself of course. Thought she weren't watching close enough."_

Vincent appears on the horizon and trots over, lying next to him with his head across his lap. He strokes the dog with undisguised affection, somehow realizing he always appears when the guilt is strongest.

"_So she stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Neighbours started talking; afraid she might do something to herself, I guess."_

The gun is buried in his back pocket, never far in case he needs it. But he no longer needs it. Each day becomes a little bit easier, all because of something a wiser man than himself told him a long time ago.

"_Anyway, about 6 months after Jeanie's funeral, this golden retriever comes padding up our driveway, walks right into our house, sits down on the floor, and looks right at my mother, there on the couch. And my mother looks back at the dog. _

_After about a minute of them both staring at each other like that, my mother burst into tears. Beautiful dog, no tags, no collar, healthy, and sweet. The dog slept in Jeanie's old room, on Jeanie's old bed, and stayed with us until my mother passed five years later. Then, disappeared back to wherever it was she came from in the first place." _

He strokes the dog again, noticing how calm the animal is.

Then, he leans over, cautiously, and buries his face in the dog's fur, somehow smelling her perfume, her scent, in the air. It would've been just like her to come back in some shape or form, just to make sure he remembered to live, remembered to keep fighting.

They sit there together, pressing pause on all the madness of their lives. He pushes back his hair, drinks some water, and sighs heavily, wishing things were simpler like they'd been with her around.

"Love you," he whispers, partly to the dog (just in case she is in there, somehow) and partly to the wind, hoping she'll get the message somehow.

He doesn't even flinch when the dog ups and leaves, without so much as a backward glance.

He knows he's done what he came here to do.

/./././

He decides to go out and celebrate having purchased his first flat since before the plane crash. It's not exactly homely, but it'll do. Everything is just _it'll do _and he finds he doesn't mind that so much. Since he got back to civilization, he's found mediocrity is how he gets by. Anything expensive makes him cringe; anything bordering on being labelled cheap shit makes his stomach heave.

He stops by the pet store first, searching fruitlessly for something he isn't sure even existed. He is convinced the moments on the island he thought she was there, watching over, were nothing more than the desperate fantasies of a broken man.

So he leaves the store, thoroughly disheartened.

Only to stop and see this beautiful golden Labrador - a lot like Vincent, only its fur is a brighter shade of yellow, almost sunshine gold - staring up at him with these big, beautiful eyes.

And he takes her home, even though he's never been a dog person. Just the companionship is enough for him. He doesn't name her Juliet, because that would be creepy, and a little unflattering, but he does name her Jeanie.

He names her after the story which somehow made him human again, which somehow gave him a few moments of sanity in his pathetic excuse for a life.

But her name slips out anyway, sometimes. Because she's always there, never in the back of his mind, always at the front. And he thinks he knows what she's trying to say.

_Remember that I love you, James. Always will. I know I can't prove it you anymore, but you'll find it out for yourself some day. I'll send a sign. _

His lips twitch into a half smile.

_Got your message, Blondie. Loud and clear. Love you too. Always. _


End file.
